Tel mère ...

Maybe I've conditioned her too well; all those walks to Sherwood Gardens must have put ideas in her head. Still, I'm happy to know that Eska's favourite flowers are tulips -- she won't eat any of the others I buy. My heady hyacinths have been sitting in their vase, untouched, a full two days now.

Unprecedented.

We are so much alike, my girl and I.

Food for Thought

I got home from BCDC tonight only to discover Eska's newest trick: pulling the folding kitchen closet door out from its tracks. While tethered to the radiator. Ten feet away. Needless to say, the consequences were significantly short of pretty.

Taste of the Wild, do you make food for humans, too?

Higher learning

Well it's happened once before, but Bruno was a puppy then, barely even two months old. He probably saw me use it, or it probably smelled like me, and anyway, he only damaged a corner of it and I didn't even have to plead my case: the gods of understanding sided with me.

But my heart leapt up (in terror) higher than Wordsworth's would (in joy) when he'd behold a rainbow in the sky at the sight of MSEL's very own, very exclusive (yellowing, old, and now out of print) copy of Giacomo D'Ancona's Critica e storia della letteratura italiana delle origini, parte prima torn to shreds and scattered all over my bedroom floor.

The stolen half-loaf of freshly-baked banana bread this morning, then the half-cupcake on the side of the road should have tipped me off to a particularly aggressive mood coming over my girl this side of the new moon. I'm not sure why I decided, today, that tethering her to the desk would be smarter than crating her.

The decision itself might not have been so intelligent, but I hope to the high heavens that at least Eska is after all that voracious (r)ea[d]ing.

It was a protest of sorts, I guess.

The Cycle of Life

Novellino, Novella XCII:

"There was a woman who had baked a fine eel tart and had placed it in the cupboard. She saw a mouse enter by a window, drawn by its aroma. She beckoned to her cat and placed it in the cupboard to grab the mouse. The mouse hid itself in some flour and the cat ate the tart. And when she opened the door, the mouse jumped out, but the cat did not catch it because its belly was full."

So, Eska is really a reincarnation of a late 13th, early 14th-century Italian cat.

You know, I suspected she might be. Tout s'explique.

Baltimore: the city that sleeps

I shouldn't complain, really. Eska and I are both nordic creatures accustomed to the cold (and everything that comes with it) and highly expectant that most other places exposed to it even minimally know how to deal with it. Back when I still lived in Quebec, knowing about an overnight freeze meant waking up 15-20 minutes earlier than usual the next day and salting (and often also sanding) your stairs and the stretch of sidewalk connected to your property. It was just common sense. In Baltimore and despite the increased potential for lawsuit (rampant nationwide, and filed for any and every offense), it means sleeping in until the one responsible guy on your block who probably has kids and a real job takes care of his property and yours because, with five mouths to feed, he can't afford to fall and break a leg on the way to his car up the street.

Still, I thought that by 8.40, most people even lacking conscience would have the obligation to be up, heading to work, scratching the ice off their car windows, and all the rest.

It took Eska and me 20 minutes to walk a stretch it normally takes us the better part of 7 to reach; I cut our walk short. She wasn't particularly happy with me, but Hopkins won't pay the bill for a severed limb - mine or hers.

That's Bawlmer, hon

Last night, I took Eska out on our evening walk. We set out on the same route we always follow: up Cresmont to 31st, straight until Remington/33rd, hang a right on Remington and follow it up to Beech ....

All was well on the first leg of our trip. We ran into Andy the fierce terrier shortly after our departure, he and Eska had a little exchange, then they parted ways. She sniffed around my neighbour's garden. Someone stopped to tell her she was beautiful. Same old.

We get up to 31st and make a left, Eska trotting happily behind me. She's walking on the sidewalk, not uncharacteristically, but I can feel her veering toward the grass precisely at the time she usually feels compelled to do her dirty business. Routine. I don't look behind me. It's only when I start fishing in my pocket for the plastic bag I bring with me for such occasions, that I'm alerted to the THE NIGHTMARE I AM ABOUT TO WITNESS by a strange, unfamiliar cross between a squeak and a whimper I hear coming from behind me. I turn around: Eska is holding a dying rat the size of my head in her mouth. Proudly. "Look, mommy. I haz big chew-toy."

So my initial reaction was, verbatim, "ohmygodohmygod EW, ESKA DROP IT!" My next instinct was to add an "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!" and then an "ew. ew. gross. GROSS. Drop it! Ew! Drop!" closing up, finally, with, "good girl. Ohmygod, that was SO gross."

The guy walking just a few feet behind me found the whole scene rather amusing, and tried to make my nervous laughter less awkward by pronouncing some unremarkable comment about my girl's hunting skills.

I know you were hungry, zoeesh, but couldn't you have picked up a candy wrapper instead?

Wait. What?

Today, I forgot to crate or tether Eska before I left the house at 9.45am. Of course, I only realised as much when she greeted me, 4 hours later, AT THE DOOR of my apartment.

My immediate thought was at least ten times worse than yours right now. Troy is coming over in a few hours to work on a massive translation. The house didn't reek of garbage, but that didn't mean anything, necessarily. I didn't want to walk into my room. I didn't. Fear of Consequence gripped and paralysed me and it took me a moment to move in any direction at all.

Eventually, I made my way around an apartment potentially more spotless than the way I left it. I looked everywhere for signs of urine, feces, blood, anything; I found nothing. She hadn't even bothered pulling one of my sweaters carelessly left lying around into her crate for a mid-morning snack.

What kind of a crazy girl is my girl? Is she depressed? I don't get it.

Once I recovered from the shock of her good behaviour, I took her out to pee, then hugged her for a minute and gave her a cookie.

I stopped by Howl on the way home to pick up food and a 6-tie, European-style MountainDog leash. I wasn't sure, at the time, that Eska deserved the rawhide pretzel I added to my order at the last minute. Now, I'm glad I did.